


From the Ashes

by Anonymous_Authors_Incorporated



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Paris Burning (thecitysmith)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, History of Paris, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Reincarnation, canon-typical alcohol use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:33:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26594518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonymous_Authors_Incorporated/pseuds/Anonymous_Authors_Incorporated
Summary: When Paris awoke, a week after the barricade had fallen, he had no idea who (or what) he was. He groaned, sitting up on the cobblestones of the dank alleyway, and grabbed his head. Everything was so much.He carefully, painfully stood up, swaying on his feet. 'Still drunk, then,' he thought to himself. 'Same as always.'Set in the universe ofParis Burning,a fan sequel.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 37
Kudos: 31





	1. Chapter One: Sundrenched

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Paris Burning](https://archiveofourown.org/works/825130) by [thecitysmith](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecitysmith/pseuds/thecitysmith). 



> I loved _Paris Burning_ so much, and this idea has been bouncing around in my head for a while, because it broke my heart. I don't think this will make much sense if you haven't read it, so... I highly recommend you do that, even though it will shatter your heart into a million pieces.

When Paris awoke, a week after the barricade had fallen, he had no idea who (or what) he was. He groaned, sitting up on the cobblestones of the dank alleyway, and grabbed his head. Everything was _so much._

He carefully, painfully stood up, swaying on his feet. _Still drunk, then,_ he thought to himself. _Same as always._

He wasn’t entirely sure how he knew he was a habitual drunk, but it felt like the truth, so he went with it.

He stumbled around the city for a while, before his feet took him back to somewhere that felt familiar. His flat, he assumed. When he walked in, everything was in disarray. Clothes were scattered on the floor, the mattress ripped open, all the drawers in the desk were open, papers spilling out of them. He walked over to the desk, and ran his fingers over the wood, polished from constant touching and use. He picked up a page.

_Citizens, do you picture the future to yourselves? The streets of cities inundated with light, green branches on the thresholds, nations sisters, men just, old men blessing children, the past loving the present, thinkers entirely at liberty, believers on terms of full equality, for religion heaven, God the direct priest, human conscience become an altar, no more hatreds, the fraternity of the workshop and the school, for sole penalty and recompense fame, work for all, right for all, peace over all, no more bloodshed, no more wars, happy mothers! To conquer matter is the first step; to realize the ideal is the second. Reflect on what progress has already accomplished._

Grantaire snorted. _Accomplished? Hardly. Robespierre believed he was bringing progress, and he wrought only death upon those he had once sought to free. Napoleon thought he brought progress, but his greed for empire only ended up causing other nations to hate us! King Charles thought he brought change, but he refused to help her after all she had done—_

He lost his train of thought. All these thoughts had images attached. Like he’d been there, impossible for a man of his twenty-nine years. He shook his head to clear it, and his eye caught on the signature. _Enjolras._ An image of a beautiful man flashed before his eyes, and his heart hurt. He wiped away the tears that had sprung to his eyes. He didn’t even know this man, why was he crying?

He left the building, once again wandering. It wasn’t until he was lost in the maze of the parisian streets again that he realised he was holding a red cravat and crying.

The next time he found himself somewhere familiar, he was much more sure that he had reached his place of lodging. His residence had not been upended and searched as had the other man’s, but it was also in a clear state of disarray. His paintings, torn. Fragments of red and gold, of _Enjolras_ were scattered upon the floor, and Grantaire was overwhelmed. He could feel the pain in the room. Someone had _mourned_ him. But why? He’s not dead…

Grantaire carefully moved the scraps of what had once been his paintings into a corner, and collapsed onto the mattress in the corner. Everything he didn’t know could wait until the morning.

* * *

Grantaire rolled out of bed, stretched his aching body, and felt dozens and dozens of heartbeats. He could feel, in his chest, the blackness crawling up people’s lungs, suffocating them. He could feel starvation in his own stomach, as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks. He could feel the city. He hated it. On instinct, he grabbed the first full bottle of wine he could reach, and drank deeply from it. _It hadn’t hurt when he was drunk._

He felt his senses dull, and sighed. He walked over to his desk, and began to look through it for some clue as to who he was. Something more concrete than feelings. In the only neat drawer, he found two stacks of letters, bound in velvet ribbon. His hand hesitated over the first stack, heavy parchment bound with a beautiful, deep purple ribbon. No. The others first. These were bound with a green ribbon, and these were what gave him a hint to his life.

They were all penned in his hand, addressed to people who had once been his friends. As he read their names, flashes of them danced behind his closed eyes. They laughed and drank and talked and danced and died. He mourned them all. At the bottom of the stack, he found his letters to Enjolras. He could not bring himself to read them. Not yet.

He carefully placed his letters back in the drawer. There would be time enough for him to read the others, but not now. Not like this. He closed the drawer with some amount of force, his eyes stinging with unshed tears.

* * *

Grantaire became a ghost. He flitted from job to job, and bar to bar, without ever making a wave. He saw seasons come and go, he felt the cold in his bones, and he let the color drain from the world around him. Then—upon the fifth anniversary of the fall of the barricade (of which he now knew himself to have been a part)—as he mourned, deep in his cups at the Café Musain… 

_“Grantaire?”_

_Marius. And with him Cosette and Musichetta._

Grantaire looked up from his bottle and felt the sweet taste of love, as strong as it had been the day Marius had first seen Cosette, enter his soul.

For the first time in years, he laughed.

 _“Marius!_ Oh, I thought the barricade had claimed you, as it did me!”

_(He had not thought Marius dead. He would have felt such love extinguished from the world.)_

_“And dear Cosette!_ You truly are as beautiful as the morning dew—” _Blonde children,a nursery, laughter and love until the end of her days._ “Just as Marius described you. You know, when he burst in here, madly in love, I thought Enjolras—” His voice breaks, and he continues, subdued by his own heartbreak. “I had thought Enjolras might strike your beloved across the face for derailing the meeting so,” here he paused, making a show of examining her. “Oh, but you are with child!” He closed his eyes for a moment. “A beautiful baby girl. She, too, will be as sweet and beautiful as the morning dew.”

He turned his drunken gaze upon the last member of the party standing above his table.

“And Musichetta. I am sorry. You would have been happy with them, had I not failed you all. If it is any consolation, they truly loved you,” He returned to his bottle, his fit of passion complete.

Marius frowned. “Grantaire, I had not thought you’d met either Cosette or Musichetta. I did not meet Musichetta until after the fall of the barricades.”

Grantaire’s head lolled back and he looked at them, something ancient crossing his face and entering his voice. “You do not know these streets as I have, Marius.” He grinned, all teeth. “And I know all of this city, and all of its denizens.”

“Come now, Monsieur,” Musichetta frowned. “You speak as though _you_ are Paris. We all know that the City of Paris hasn’t been seen in far too long. And besides, you fought at the barricades. If you were Paris, would not the citizens have risen?”

“Fine. Believe what you will. It matters not to me. Just leave me here to mourn in peace.”

Marius frowned, then, with the look of a man doing difficult math. “He knew, didn’t he. Enjolras.”

Grantaire let loose a sob, and the rain that had been looming all day began to pour down into the streets.

He struggled to his feet, grabbed the bottle off the table, and walked out into the rain.

* * *

When he made it to his apartments, Grantaire was soaked to the bone. He quickly dried himself, and sat down at his desk. He gently held the red cravat for a moment, before replacing his own, green cravat with it around his neck. He took a deep breath. The rain eased.

By the time Grantaire got to the bottom of the pile of letters, the rain had slowed to a drizzle. They had been right, the other Cities. Enjolras had killed him. Hesitantly, he began to put pen to parchment.

_London,_

_I do not know what has happened to me. I lost myself, when he died. When I awoke, it was like the first time. I did not know what I was, or who. How did you cope, when they died? With Jeanne, it was different. I had my own battles to fight, people who knew me, a life to live. Now… the world is grey. There is nothing for me here, now. I cannot go back to living how I was before, hidden and complacent. Lisbon told me, last time, that it was time to rejoin polite society, but… I am not who I was before. I haven’t been, for a long time. I don’t know if I_ can _._

_Please, London. Please don’t tell the others I’m alive. I will write to them in my own time, but for now, I just need time, and I need to mourn. I’m just not sure how._

_Yours,_

_Paris_

* * *

Grantaire sent the letter off, and put his face in his hands.

* * *

Paris began to change. First, it was the railways, bringing people to his city. They were hopeful. Grantaire began to walk with a spring in his step again. Over the next ten years, Grantaire laid the groundwork for the future. He knew what to do.

In 1848, he stood at the forefront of the revolutionaries, holding a red flag, grinning a grin that was all teeth. He raised a glass. _For you, Enjolras._

He began to clean himself up. He collected all his belongings, and all of Enjolras’s, and moved out of the slums. He was still a heavy drinker, he always would be, but he made an effort to take better care, so that people wouldn’t get involved taking care of him ever again.

People began to throw parties in his catacombs.

In 1860 Auteuil, Batignolles-Monceau, Montmartre, La Chapelle, Passy, La Villette, Belleville, Charonne, Bercy, Grenelle and Vaugirard were all forcefully added to Paris. His siblings suddenly within his borders, they could feel him once again, and his carefully constructed walls came crumbling down. Thirty years of on and off correspondence with London and no one else had left him fully unprepared for his family. They found him within hours of their official addition to his city. They cried, and the streets of Paris flooded.

1870\. Berlin’s people were strangling Paris. His ribs could have been played like a xylophone, and the bruises and broken bones from the bombs were scattered all along his form. He felt his power, split with Tours, waning. He was in danger.

He watched through the bottom of a bottle as the Paris Commune rose and fell. _Enjolras would have loved them,_ he supposed. He watched the slaughter that followed.

He shouldered on.

He felt Marius and Cosette pass. They were old, and he felt the grief of their children and grandchildren as if it were his own, and perhaps it was. He donned black clothing, and went to visit their graves.

“I’m glad you were happy.”

He loved artists, poets, writers. He drank with them, shared ideas with them, and watched proudly as the world fawned over them. Many of them, he suspected, would have taken him as a lover in a heartbeat. But he was not Madrid. There was only one he had ever considered, but he watched as the man loved the humans in his city, and could not bear to part him from his work any more than he could let his memory of Enjolras tarnish.

War always left its marks. The Great War was no different. He fought with his boys, doing everything he could to bring them home.

After, he welcomed those boys to tell their stories through art. He shared their pain, and he had perfected the art of listening. He knew loss, and he knew war. That seemed to be all that mattered.

He watched activists begin to rise from the ashes, and didn’t know to laugh or cry. _I am,_ he supposed, _beginning to believe in change. Oh, Enjolras. If only you could know._

Then the Nazis arrived.

He had never felt such fear, his own or his peoples.

For months, he hid. He acted in secret. He helped cut the cables of the Eiffel Tower’s elevator, so that Hitler would have to climb to the top.

(Parallel slash marks on his collarbone, pointing to his heart. He felt them grow as he sawed at the cable, but gritted his teeth and fought the pain. He would not let invaders have this, too.)

But, as always, when his students were moved to anger, he joined them. He demonstrated with them, and he helped them resist. He hid them in his alleys, and he guided them through his catacombs.

He wept as he watched his children be taken by the Nazis to kill. And it was weeping that they found him. How they knew who he was, he couldn’t be sure, but they dragged him away from his painting, and they trapped him. They held him until the French and American troops found all the prisoners they were holding and freed them. Paris slipped away.

Grantaire could not bring himself to meet de Gaulle, despite the overwhelming love of the people. He had suffered too much, he would not put himself in danger by being known, not again.

He drank as the barricades rose once again, and students put themselves on the line for a better future. He couldn’t help but smile around the mouth of the bottle as the people stood with them. The wine soured in his mouth. Enjolras had deserved that, too. Grantaire could believe in students now, so _why couldn’t he have then!_

* * *

Grantaire gathered his supplies, and stepped out of his flat. He locked the door, and tied the red silk cravat once more. He paused a moment, sighing. _First day of the new school year,_ he sighed to himself. _Just more students, more artists. They’re just children._

He looks at his children, assembled before him, and smiles.

“I know you all came to Uni in order to be adults, and learn, and be treated like adults, but here’s the first thing about this class. There will be no ‘adulting’ here. This is about creativity and art, and while responsibilities are real, and so are deadlines, everything else is a lie.

“The second, and debatably more important thing about this class is that I am not like any professor you have ever had, and you will never have a professor like me again. All the stories are true. _I am wild.”_ his grin was full of teeth. “That being said, this is a studio art class, so while sometimes you will be free to do whatever you want, sometimes I will bring in someone or something to shake things up. At the end of the semester, you will be expected to turn in a piece in each of the featured mediums, plus three free choice pieces…”

Paris loved this. He loved the dreamers, and the artists. He loved all his children, but students would always be his favourite. He sat in the front of the class and watched them work, sketching absently in his sketchbook, to hide what he was really doing. He let his still-dulled senses out into the room, so that he could _know_ his students. He could know all of his citizens, if he were stronger.

It was Amsterdam, in the end, who told him to teach. The City was cool and collected, and had an analysing mind _(“Like Combeferre,” a treacherous part of his mind whispered. “They would have gotten along well, if you hadn’t failed them.”)_ and somehow just knew what Paris had needed.

 _Dear, misguided Paris,_ the letter began.

_London is worried about you. Do not fret, City of Lovers, I will not force you to speak to the others, if you do not wish. It has been over a century, and I can still feel your anguish. One hundred and ten years is a long time to hide from everything, you know. If what London suspects is true, you haven’t done more than move from apartment to apartment._

This was false. He had stood with students, he had fought off the Nazis—how did Amsterdam have the energy to write to him, after having only been liberated for a year, when he had suffered so greatly?—Paris had been active.

_I have a suggestion for you. When I felt most vulnerable, I sat amongst those who would change the world. I watched them learn about the sciences and life in equal measure. Take up a position teaching, Paris. It may do you a lot of good. You have much wisdom and experience, and the laboring hands of an artist, and your citizens would do well to have a teacher such as you. And you’d do well to listen to them, too._

_Amsterdam_

The waterlogged City was right, of course, as much as Paris hated to admit it. Teaching was doing him good. It had taken him a few years after he got the letter to act on it’s advice, but he was glad he had, in moments like these, when he could feel the determination of his children to _create._ He smiled faintly down at what was becoming a sketch of the Café Musain, as it had been when Marius had come across him. His pencil stilled, and he flipped to a new page, and began to draw the view from the window of his flat.

Soon enough, it was time for him to leave. He made his way across campus, taking advantage of the good weather to simply admire what was, when something tugged in his gut.

He stopped walking, as if he was a puppet that had suddenly had all its strings pulled taught. _No. Not again._ But he couldn’t resist the pull of his people.

His gut took him to the English building, and there, standing sun-drenched on the steps, was Enjolras, as if he had walked out of Grantaire’s memories and into the twenty-first century.


	2. Chapter Two: Candlelight

Grantaire fumbled to get out the flask he had hidden in a pocket inside his coat. _This isn’t possible,_ he thought. _He died, almost two hundred years ago. Fate cannot be so cruel as to make me watch him die again._

He wanted to turn away, but the sight before him kept him still. Finally, he shook his head, and turned away. It wasn’t Enjolras, and even if it was, he would not get involved again. He couldn’t take losing Enjolras all over again.

He _felt_ , rather than heard, someone run up to where _he_ was standing on the steps. Even with his back to them, Paris felt the radiating affection. The taste of cherries burst onto his tongue, and his eyes stung with tears. He missed his friends. He missed them so much, even after so long.

_“René! I am so sorry I’m late! Again!”_

And he laughed. Grantaire staggered. He had spent ages trying to coax that laugh from Enjolras, ever serious, with the weight of a revolution on his shoulders—and here he was, laughing like it was nothing.

The skies darkened ominously, and Grantaire bit the inside of his cheek. He closed his eyes, and took a deep breath, pushing his tears down into the catacombs. The skies began to clear slightly, and Grantaire wiped away a couple of tears. He would not lose control like this, not here. He stumbled towards a nearby tree, hoping he wouldn’t call attention to himself. Holding onto the tree desperately with one hand for stability, he used the other to pull out his flask, and he emptied it.

He focused on the burn of the vodka on his tongue, trying to drown out everything else. It would have been easier to avoid had he not just realised he’d moved the tree about five feet towards him, but if he focused on his body he could be _Grantaire_ and not _Paris._ But he couldn’t tune out the joyful voices behind him, so familiar, and so impossible.

“It’s fine, Dev. You know you have this thing called a phone, that you could use to _tell_ me, _in advance,_ that you’re going to be half an hour late,”

Paris could feel the smirk on his mouth, and the amusement radiating off of him.

“Although I can’t help but feel like we should use our surnames on campus, we can’t have any undergrads walking by and finding out your name is Devereaux. That _hardly_ reflects well upon your serious persona.”

Grantaire—Paris—Grantaire sank to the ground, back against the tree. _No. I don’t want to know,_ he thought. _Let them pass me by, I cannot bear this heartbreak. Love is shit._

But he couldn’t lie to himself for long enough to resist the urge to pull out his sketchbook. Without looking up, he began to sketch the men in front of him. He quickly drew the shape of the building, and began the figures upon its steps.

He drew his flask to his lips, and cursed at its emptiness. He could feel the City in him reaching out. He needed to go. But try as he might, fate had other plans. He needed to stay here, until the men left.

“Alright, _Professor Enjolras,_ if you’re going to be all ‘Mr. Serious’ on me, I don’t have to tell ‘Ferre and Joly to save you any of the pastries they got from our favourite patisserie today, to celebrate our first day as poor, struggling adjunct-professors-slash-grad-students.”

The sky opened up, and it began to drizzle.

It had happened, once or twice, that Grantaire had come across someone called Enjolras, but never like this. Never had they been dressed in sunlight, and accompanied by a soul he knew so well. Enjolras’s companion here was indisputably—

_“Courfeyrac, you would do no such thing!”_

But _why?_ And _how?_ Athens might know, if such things as the resurrection of a lost soul were possible, but did he even dare to ask her?

The two men bickered familiarly as they left, and Grantaire felt the weight that had kept him from running ease. He put away his sketch, stood, and _pushed_ the tree back to where it had been before.

It was going to be a long night.

* * *

The streets of Paris writhed, as Grantaire tossed and turned his way through his nightmares of the past. He was tired. So tired. He was so close, if the horse could go only a little faster—change of scene. He could feel the dull blade of the guillotine strike through his neck, again and again and again but it wasn’t cutting through, and he could see his own face in the crowd, this wasn’t his turn, so who? The pain expanded—it was all down his back now, lash after lash of the whip and it _hurt_ it hurt so badly and he couldn’t breathe, it was like he was underwater… He felt the cool touch of gentle fingers along his scars, and he opened his eyes. _“Enjolras, I—”_

“Hush, Paris, everything is okay now. Sleep softly, City, for I am here beside you once more. It’s a choice I’ll make again and again, as long as you’ll allow me. Do you permit it, Grantaire?”

The streets settled, and Grantaire awoke.

* * *

He smoothed a hand over his exhausted face, and sighed. End of the week. Last class, over. Grantaire slumped back in his chair, putting his foot up on the desk and leaning the chair (and his head) back.

The nightmares were just getting worse. He had seen someone different in each one, but they all soothed him and smiled at him and called him Paris, knowledge none save Enjolras had had in life. He had to write to Athens.

He steeled himself, and picked up a pen.

_(Please,_ he prayed to the Earth, _please do not be this cruel to me. I could not bear to lose him once, and you would have me do it again? But I do not know what would be more painful—if it really is them, or if it is simply a facsimile of the people I used to know.)_

* * *

_René Enjolras_

Enjolras awoke with a start, images of paper lit by a candle and blue, blue eyes (bluer than he’d ever seen, he was sure, and yet _so_ familiar) still swirling in his mind. He shot off a quick text to Combeferre _(Just had another one. Not scary, just odd.)_ and sat down at his desk. If he couldn’t get to sleep, he could at least get ahead on his grading.

Or at least, he could try to. After twenty minutes of staring at the third page of a paper he wasn’t really reading, he groaned and stood up, feeling his back crack as he stretched. He ambled into the kitchen, still trying to stop thinking about blue eyes. He stood over the running sink holding a glass for a moment, blinking at it, before he realised he was letting it run hot, and cursed his being so thrown by a dream.

He leaned on the counter with his face in his hands, glass of water abandoned beside him, and groaned. _It was just a dream, René. Get a hold of yourself._

But it wasn’t just a dream, was it? Six dreams, all of similar things, in the span of two weeks? He almost never even remembered his dreams! He winced, thinking of the feeling of bullets. It had been so _real._

_Could it be real?_

_Could they be memories?_

He was going to have to tell Combeferre he was going insane, and ‘Ferre was going to be so upset. Memories of a past life? That's ridiculous. Impossible.

He grabbed his favorite mug (and tea) and a well worn book, and settled in to wait the approximately three hours until his roommate (and Courf) would arise.

* * *

The crew of the _Hermes_ were just about to talk to their families before the _Taiyang Shen_ ’s booster got them their resupply, when Combeferre’s door creaked open in the watery early morning light.

Enjolras glanced up, and gave a sleepy Courfeyrac a tight-lipped smile.

“Another one?” Courf yawned.

He nodded. “Not _bad,_ per se, just… disturbing. I was writing, that’s all.”

Courf nodded at him and stumbled towards the coffee maker. Enjolras returned to his book.

After the successful docking of the probe, Combeferre also stumbled out of his room and into the kitchen, resting his head on Courfeyrac’s shoulder. The (now slightly alert) Courfeyrac gently pressed a mug of coffee into ‘Ferre’s hands, smiling. They were cute. Domestic. Peaceful.

Enjolras frowned down at his book, and Courf and ‘Ferre tumbled into the living room.

A few minutes of sleepy silence passed, but eventually Combeferre was awake enough to put down his coffee mug. “What happened in this one?”

Enjolras thought about those blue eyes. “I was writing by candlelight. Something about _The Declaration of the Rights of Man and Citizen,_ and how it applied to… our cause? I think I was leading a revolution.” He felt his face flush. “And there was a boy.”

Courfeyrac’s eyes sparkled. “A _boy?”_

Enjolras looked at the book in his lap. “Just his eyes. Blue. I think I loved him.”

Courfeyrac was thrilled. “Enjolras, man of passion! God, I can’t even _imagine_ you being more in love with a man than Blind Justice! Tell me, was he a distraction from your work?”

Combeferre put a hand on his... (Lover? Boyfriend? Fiancé? Enjolras really needed to ask, this was getting embarrassing) on Courfeyrac. “Calm, Courfeyrac. You’re getting ahead of yourself. Are you alright, E?”

Enjolras nodded slowly. “It wasn’t at all like the last one. No… no death.”

Combeferre nodded. “What do you know about where you were?”

“Nothing, I was at a desk,” He smiled slightly at his bouncy friend. “And yes, Courfeyrac, the boy was a distraction from my work. But… I think he inspired me, too. It’s frustrating, he was so _familiar!_ I wish I could place who he was.” He sighed. “It’s going to be a long week, if these continue,”

Combeferre stood, slowly, and Courfeyrac scooted down the couch to give Enjolras a hug. Courfeyrac murmured soothing words into Enjolras’s hair, and Enjolras leaned into his friend’s shoulder. He drifted slightly, almost nodding off in his arms, but was brought back to reality by Combeferre’s hand on his shoulder, and the rich smell of his favorite tea, perfectly sweetened.

Enjolras took a deep inhale of the steam. _“Fucking Mondays.”_

Combeferre, perched on the arm of the couch, squeezed his shoulder, and Courfeyrac chuckled against him. Unsettling dreams and sleepless nights aside, it was an almost perfect morning. The three of them sitting on the couch together in a sleepy, caffeine imbibing huddle, just existing together. Enjolras would be loath to admit it, but he liked this version of himself and his friends even more than when they were working to improve the world. There, he was a leader, an idealist, a compass for the group; and they, his faithful lieutenants, but here it was easy. He didn’t have to be fearless, or know what was right or wrong. He could be scared, and shaken, and need comfort, here, on the couch in the early morning light. He rested his cheek against Combeferre’s leg, and soaked in the warmth of having his two best friends near him. An unfortunately short twenty minutes later, the puddle began to stir.

First, Combeferre stood. He collected the empty mugs and smiled softly at the two on the couch, and ruffled their hair as he walked by towards the shower. Courf stood a minute later to go join him, and Enjolras pulled himself out of the couch to read and grade at least one paper before he could use the shower.

By the time the shower stopped running, Enjolras had finished the paper he’d started when he woke up and was halfway through the next one, and finally feeling awake. When he heard Combeferre’s door close, he stood to properly start his day.

* * *

Enjolras sat on a bench outside the library, enjoying the sandwich from his favourite deli, and soaking in what would probably be one of the few days of reasonable temperature this month. Soon it would be too cold or rainy to sit outside, and he’d have to eat in his office, but for now, he could enjoy the fresh air.

He only made it through three games of solitaire before Jehan joined him on the bench.

The gentle poet smiled at him, and Enjolras couldn’t stop the grin that came across his face at the sight of their joy. Jehan was one of those people whom you couldn’t not love, they just exuded some kind of peace and an almost intoxicating level of joy, when they were happy.

“Enj, what’s got you all twisted up? You look like someone gave you a crossword puzzle you just can’t finish.”

Enjolras sighed and fondly shook his head. “I had a dream, Prouvaire, and there was someone in it who felt so familiar, but I don’t know who he is.”

Jehan grinned. “Ah, how capital-r Romantic! Tell me, was he running through a forest? Can you only see his silhouette? Oh! Perhaps he’s always turning away from you, and no matter what you say he won’t look at you!”

“I’m sorry to disappoint, my friend. All I ever see of him are his eyes. They’re almost inhumanly blue.”

The poet hummed for a moment. “That’s almost better.” They looked at their phone. “Oh, shit! I forgot I promised R I’d get coffee with him at that place around the corner! I’m so sorry, René. Why don’t you join us? I can’t believe I double booked myself for lunch, I’m such a fool.”

Enjolras looked at the distressed person before him. “It’s alright, Jehan, I’m done eating anyways, I can go grade—” The poet grabbed his arm and pulled him along towards the coffee shop. “Oh, okay, this is happening now. Prouvaire! Let me put my stuff in my bag at least!”

* * *

Grantaire had very few friends at his job. He couldn’t exactly _afford_ to have friends, because having constant people in life is hard and dangerous when you have to hide that you don’t age, and that you can’t be injured…

(And you have to watch them age and die and hurt and then they’re _gone_ _forever_ and it hurts _it hurts oh god it hurts)_

And yet he couldn’t help himself. Jean was so gentle, so like his poet had been, centuries before, and when, three weeks into the school year, the poetry professor _(what_ is _their last name? I should find out)_ had smiled at him, and said “How about on Monday, we get lunch at the coffee shop around the corner? I’ll meet you there!” Grantaire hadn’t had it in him to protest and push them away.

When the poet barrelled into the coffee shop, late, Grantaire knew he’d made a mistake. _Enjolras_ . He closed his eyes for a moment. _(How could he have been so blind? The poet wasn’t just_ like _Jehan. The poet_ was _Jehan.)_

Jehan and Enjolras sat down at the table with him, and Grantaire forced himself to smile at them. “Hello, Jean. Who’s this you’ve brought with you? A partner, perhaps? You didn’t say you were in love!”

Their sparkling laughter made the smile on Paris’s face a bit more real. “Oh R, you have no idea. This is René Enjolras, and the only person _he_ loves is his dear Patria. Or perhaps the beautiful Paris themself, but if he’s met Paris and not told his friends, that would be shocking.”

Grantaire felt his smile become tight. _Beautiful. Ha._

He took a breath and extended his (slightly paint splattered, oh dear) hand towards his lovely Apollo. “Corentin Grantaire, but you can call me any time, oh marble lover of liberty.”

Enjolras shook his hand perfunctorily. “I won’t, thank you,” He looked at Grantaire’s hand as he took a sip of his coffee to hide his embarrassment. “Are you an artist?”

Paris shrugged. “Among other things. A bit of an artist, a bit of a teacher, a bit of a philosopher, a bit of a monarchist,”

He watched as Enjolras started, taken aback. “A _monarchist?_ In this day and age? That’s absurd! Prouvaire, why would you—” He took in the smile on Jehan’s face. “Ah. You’re messing with me. In that case, I have grading to do. I’ll see you at seven, Jehan?”

Grantaire watched him leave and sighed. “I’m sorry, Jean. I didn’t mean to drive him away.”

“No harm done. It was a joy to watch you try to flirt with René. He’s so _serious,_ he could use a bit of you in his life. Why don’t you come with me, tonight? See him in action at a meeting,”

_(And oh, how that felt like a punch to the gut. Enjolras still held meetings, still tried to make the world a better place. Tried to make_ him _a better place.)_

Grantaire hesitated, trying to think of a way out. “Would he really be alright with that? All I’ve done is mock him,” _(It’s all I’ve ever done,_ he thought. _All I can do, in the face of such beauty that I cannot touch.)_

Jehan nodded. “You’ll challenge him. He needs it. And besides, I can tell you’re half in love already, and he deserves someone like you,”

“Someone who’ll drive him mad?”

“Someone who cares about _people_ far more than the People.”

Grantaire slowly nodded. “Alright. If you think it wise, Prouvaire, I’ll follow,” _As I always do,_ he didn’t say.

* * *

Grantaire glared at the canvas in front of him. His hands were mocking him. All he could draw was golden curls and larkspur eyes, and so, sketched before him, was Enjolras. He looked as he did now, his curls tighter, his skin darker, and his clothes modern, but around him, things were as they had been then. It had been all too easy for Grantaire to draw this new Enjolras standing atop a barricade, raising the flag as he had before. It was too easy to see it happening again, he decided. This piece would be a triptych. He looked up at the clock on the wall and cursed. Time to go.

He met Jehan about halfway to where the Musain had stood, where the City knew they would be going. They’d agreed to meet at the metro station, as it was an easy landmark, and the poet said the café where they met was a bit out of the way _(as it always is,_ something treacherous in him whispered. _Always.)_

They walked the three blocks in companionable silence, broken only when they reached the door.

“My friends,” Jehan hesitated. “They can be a lot. They’re all rather… _Passionate._ I swear they’re all harmless. Well. Mostly.” Grantaire smiled.

“It’s alright, I can handle myself.”

Grantaire had done his best to prepare himself, but nothing could truly prepare him for seeing Enjolras in red again. When he’d been stood on the steps, like a vision from the past, he’d been in a grey shirt, and at lunch, a blue one. But here, he was on fire. It was just a red tee shirt but _oh. He has tattoos, now._ Paris needed a drink, and he hadn’t even spoken to the people around him, who he had missed so much for so long.


	3. Chapter Three: Cloudlit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is currently not proofread or beta-ed. I will edit this later, so sorry if there are any minor changes. I was simply struck by the inspiration bolt late at night, and it has been... far too long since I last posted. My bad.

When Grantaire tore his gaze from Enjolras to look around the room, desperate to find the bar, his eyes glanced over people he had known so well. Bahorel. Bossuet. Joly. Combeferre. Musichetta. Marius. Courfeyrac. Cosette. Feuilly. And there—ah!—Eponine, behind the bar. All here.

Grantaire was overwhelmed. He felt at once bigger than himself and so much smaller. He walked over to the bar, holding the city streets at bay, outside of his mind.

“What’s the strongest drink you’ll give me?”

Eponine studied him coolly. “That depends. How bad do you need to be drunk?”

Grantaire grinned wryly. He’d always liked Eponine. “I just fell madly in love with a marble statue I made, and prayed to Aphrodite. Maybe I’ll get a husband out of it this time.”

She reached her hand across the bar. “Eponine. Nice to meet you, Pygmalion. Hopeless pining gets you nowhere, trust me.”

Paris shook her hand, feeling a jolt of her feelings (curiosity-worry-love-pain) shoot up his arm. _Still in love with Marius, then._ He glanced at Marius and Cosette. _Hmm…_

“R. How do you feel about shots? Jehan thinks bringing me here was a good idea, I think the _fearless leader_ in red will yell at me. Fancy a wager?”

Eponine shook her head and poured him a double whiskey. “No, as soon as you open your mouth he’ll lose it.”

That warmed him to the core. It was about as close to a shining endorsement as Eponine ever gave, so he couldn’t find it in him to regret coming. If nothing else, he could see that this time, Eponine was happy. Paris had always had a soft spot for those who learned his streets and hidden alleyways so well. He downed the drink.

“You must be R! Jehan hasn’t stopped spouting poetry about the artist with old soul eyes eyes in weeks!” Bahorel boomed. Grantaire turned.

“My reputation precedes me, eh? I’m afraid the gentle poet neglected to mention that my art is shit, and my real passion lies behind the bar.”

Bahorel laughed. “Where have you _been_ all my life! If the darling Eponine would permit it, we should take up residence at her bar all evening, see if you can keep up with me!” 

And so, as it had been before, the back table of drink was born again.

One by one, the others, save Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and Enjolras, came by and made their introductions, then, at precisely ten past the hour, Enjolras stood from where he’d been discussing something (almost certainly The Cause) with Combeferre and Courfeyrac. The room seemed to shrink and become dimmer, and Grantaire closed his eyes to separate the past from the present. He could see the flickering candlelight, he could practically feel his waistcoat and his shirt, worn thin with use. Paris was slipping. He opened his eyes, and signalled Eponine for another drink.

When she caught his eyes she seemed to spook, and do a double take, so Paris took a deep breath. Not the City. Just a Man. When he opened his eyes again, there was a drink in front of him and the lights were no longer dim candles. He asked Eponine for a bottle of wine, and let the cadence of Enjolras’s voice wash over him in waves.

He was as beautiful as ever, eyes alight with passion and it burned straight through Grantaire’s suddenly flimsy self control. He could neither tear his eyes from the sight nor stand to look at him any longer.

The meeting passed, slowly at first, then faster, as he and Bahorel kept on drinking, and Paris allowed himself to loosen slightly, to _feel_ Bahorel’s world spin, in the way his couldn’t without so much more to drink. It was _marvelous_. 

_Gods,_ Paris smiled at Eponine. _Why don’t I borrow other people’s drunkenness more often!_

Laughter was easy, and light in his chest, and suddenly he could feel the room around him, not just Bahorel. The fervor, the fire, and _oh. Enjolras’s scorn._

Grantaire slammed the walls back down, suddenly a bit more sober. The world stabilised.

Courfeyrac walked over.

“You must be the famous R. Tell me, is it true you punched a nazi out cold and drained his drink, or did Jehan make that one up? We’ve been taking bets, but they promised at least some of the stories they’ve been telling were ones you’ve told them.”

Grantaire snorted, the memory of the nazi soldier on the floor in front of him (to the shock of the soldier’s companion) easy to call to memory. “That one is true,” he said fondly. “It was a good time—but I nearly got killed for it. His—” (the soldier’s buddies, the members of his unit, pushing in around him, whaling on him, giving him bruises that had lasted longer than he was used to, having been conquered. He hadn’t realized his Capitalhood had been challenged by having been conquered. He hadn’t realized he could die.) “His buddies caught up with me, gave me the beating of a lifetime.”

Bahorel whistled, impressed. “Where’d you find that many at once? We should go kick them back to wherever they came from.”

“They’re long gone, it was a lifetime ago,” He smiled slightly, a little vicious, feeling the drumming of parades in his heartbeat, and the joy of having expelled the invader.

 _(Ah, no, these are the drums of war,_ something in him said. _I must protect what is mine._ He shook himself internally. _Not now. Here, we are safe.)_

Courfeyrac’s eyes sparkled. “You’ve lived a lot, it seems, for a man of your years,” he pulled up a stool. “Care to share?”

Grantaire snorted. “I’m only thirty one, and I’ve lived in the city all my life,” _Oh the irony._ “I just know the worst bars in all of Paris.”

“Have you ever killed a man, R? Or known someone who has?”

_Days spent around tables, planning a doomed revolution, finding rifles, finding ammunition. He can feel little Gavroche dying, he can feel the bayonets in Combeferre’s ribs. In alleyways, he slides knives into Nazi ribcages, defending his home, his Citizens. He stands with the People upon a barricade, bodies around him that he tries to ignore, the bodies of his sons, his brothers, his fathers, all in the wrong, but his children nonetheless._

_Has he known a killer? Has he killed?_

“Not that I’ve _known,_ I think?” _Lies._ “I know some people who I would bet have killed, but nothing I can verify.”

_(“You,” he doesn’t say. “I watched all of you kill and die, I saw you do horrible things, and I saw horrible things be done to you. I may have watched through the bottom of a bottle, but I saw it.”)_

“I did once see a drag queen trip in her heels and just fucking summersault out of it because there was no escape,”

_(I’ve seen queens lose more than their footing, too.)_

Court smiles. “Jehan gave the impression that your stories were a bit more… _Wild,”_

_(“Grantaire?” Paris could smell the warring fear and arousal, Enjolras’s curiosity, and it pleased something buried deep in him. The revolutionary belonged to him. “Be serious.”_

_“I am wild.” The drums called for the Hunt to begin, and the rhythm of hunt-catch-take-claim pounding through his blood. He grinned, he could feel the City humming, waiting to help him in his Hunt, and he was so much more than human. “Now run.”)_

“I am wild, always have been, but those stories are best both told and heard drunk,”

Courfeyrac turned to Eponine, a ball of energy. “Darling Ep—”

 _“No,_ Courfeyrac. Last time I let you get drunk on a Monday Enjolras and Combeferre nearly had my head off for your hangover on Tuesday. I’m not doing that again.”

Despite her insistence, she set a shot down in front of him. “That’s it. I’m cutting you off before you start something you’ll regret finishing.”

Grantaire raised his hand off the bar, about to get himself another drink, when Eponine turned on him as well.

“You may hold your drink well, R, but I refuse to be the one to give you alcohol poisoning. You’re done too.”

He nodded, cowed by her fierceness, and finished off his bottle of wine, looking Courfeyrac in the eyes. “Ah, fate is a fickle mistress. That which she gives, she takes, just as swiftly and as cruelly.”

Courfeyrac snorted a laugh. “And that’s why Jehan likes you. Tell me, R, how does an art professor come to be both so well spoken and so cynical?”

Grantaire licked his lips, leaning toward the eager man conspiratorially. “The first step is to allow him to be raised by classics majors who both die tragically, causing him to be taken in in his mid-teens by a couple of wolves. The wolves teach him to hunt, and the ways of the forest, that the world is simply kill or be killed. Then, one day, he looks into the cottage of an old grandfather, sees him painting, and is struck with wonder. The grandfather takes him in, teaches him to paint, and the rather mediocre artist of a child enrolls in art school! Give him a few years saddled with debt, and presto! A teacher!”

“You really are both a fantastic liar and an incredible cynic,” Combeferre interrupts from behind him. “I’ll give you that you’re a good storyteller, but Jehan’s shown me your instagram, so I must say you’re selling yourself quite short. Combeferre,”

The gentle doctor _(med student,_ Grantaire chastised himself. _They go to school for that now,)_ offered a hand to shake, which Grantaire heartily accepted.

“If Jehan’s shown you my work and you still think I’m talented you must not have been wearing your glasses,” he joked. “Either that or they lied to you as much as Courfeyrac. Apparently they were telling stories about me to make me sound like some wild creature.”

A faint smile graced the med student’s face. “Given what else they said about you, you’ve shown admirable restraint tonight in not fighting with Enjolras. Please, do tell me why you believe that l’Assemblée nationale and le Sénat _shouldn’t_ be radically restructured to reflect more modern ideas of government.”

The next hour or so passed in scintillating debate. At some point, Combeferre had pulled out a notepad and begun taking notes on Grantaire’s bullshiting commentary, and by the time Jehan came to collect him, Grantaire’s words covered two and a half pages of the doctor to be’s notepad. Combeferre sat back, seemingly quite pleased with the product of the evening, his eyes shining.

“You should speak up, on Thursday. Enjolras could do with a challenge. Speaking of, I should shuffle him home and force him to grade and sleep before he turns into a mess. I’m glad you came.”

He walked over to Enjolras and spoke to him softly.

“I see you’re both enraptured by and infatuated with Enjolras,” Jehan said quietly.

Grantaire nodded, then tore his eyes away from Combeferre and Enjolras, quiet, and lit gently. He knew he’d be painting it later, no matter what he tried, so he didn’t even pretend he hadn’t been staring. “He’s stunning. In all senses of the word. And brilliant.” He shrugged on his coat. “Should I walk you back to your apartment?”

* * *

Grantaire screamed in pain, feeling wound after wound inflict itself upon him. He couldn’t tell who was torturing him, all he could see was darkness, and all he could hear was his own screams and someone’s cold, cruel laughter. It felt endless, time naught but an illusion, and then… He felt his tears, cold against his cheeks, and one by one he felt cool relief against his wounds. Someone was tending them, but he found himself incapable of opening his eyes to see who.

“Who are you?” He whispered, his voice raw and hoarse from screaming.

He felt the being by his bedside smile, but he wasn’t sure how he knew they were smiling.

The moment faded, and Grantaire was running through a grassy meadow. He felt weak, as though he was outside of his borders, and had been for some time. The gold flash of Enjolras’s hair ahead of him spurred him forward, gave him a burst of energy, and he reached out—

But Enjolras was just out of reach.

Grantaire fell to the ground, utterly exhausted. Each new step further from his borders had weakened him, and now he was too weak to go on.

Enjolras looked back at him and smiled. Just out of reach, he beckoned Grantaire onward, and offered his hand to assist him up. Grantaire reached, and just when he thought his arm might give out, he felt his fingertips brush Enjolras’s, and a jolt of electricity went through him.

He sat up just a little farther, and—

“I’m here, Paris. I promise.” Enjolras grasped his hand, pulling him forward and up up up—

_(Grantaire found himself standing upon his bed, and went back to sleep, disgruntled.)_

* * *

If anyone noticed that the streets of Paris seemed seasick on Thursday, they said nothing. 

Grantaire, on the other hand, attempted to glare his streets _(and by extension his traitorous, traitorous heart)_ into calm submission. 

_(It didn’t work.)_

All day, he sketched nervously. His hands seemed intent to betray him, and he had dozens of likenesses of his friends before him, Musichetta’s curls, Combeferre’s glasses, Jehan’s braids and flowers and awful patterned shirts _(some things never change)._ He set to paper Feuilly’s laboring hands, Bohorel’s tattooed arms, and Joly’s well worn cane. And Enjolras.

When it came time to head to the Musain, he slunk to the bar swiftly, and Eponine handed him a drink. _Gin and tonic,_ he observed. _How oddly British of her._

For her entertainment, Grantaire sketched Eponine as she worked, trying to capture her liveliness and motion on paper.

“I’m afraid, dear Eponine, that I shall have to paint you,” he said, grandly _(and not entirely falsely)._

She laughed, and looked down at his sketch. “You’re more than incredible, Grantaire. I have never looked so good. Enjolras!” She waved the blond over and Grantaire panicked.

“You should ask Mssr. Art Professor to design your next poster. Look at what he can do!”

Eponine shoved Grantaire’s sketchbook at him. Grantaire tried to protest, but she swiftly covered his mouth so he could not. All the same, Enjolras looked at him for permission before turning from the drawing of Eponine, which Grantaire could not help but give in to with a nod. Enjolras seemed impressed. 

“All this, from just one meeting? You must have quite the memory, Grantaire.”

Paris shrugs.

“Would you? Design a poster for us? I know you haven’t been with us for even two meetings, but we can commission it—”

Grantaire interrupted him. “No need to pay me, I’ll do it.”

Enjolras _beamed_.

Then the meeting began.

Grantaire had never been very good at holding his tongue, so with the blessings of both Jehan and Combeferre, he let loose quite a few remarks, whenever their glorious leader said something _particularly_ absurd, or particularly wrong _(which was often)._ It started simply with quiet laughter, and grew to mocking comments and scathing critiques. Despite his best efforts, Enjolras’s arguments were weak to Grantaire’s seemingly infinite knowledge of history and philosophy, and neither noticed as their friends ceased trying to follow their discourse and simply began discussing plans for the protest around them. It wasn’t until Enjolras was red in the face and Courfeyrac pushed a drink into his hand that Enjolras realized he’d been completely derailed. He staunchly ignored Grantaire for the remainder of the meeting.

Grantaire dealt with this all superbly. By getting as drunk as he could, with the assistance of both whatever Eponine would give him and his trusty flasks. He stumbled out the door some time later, and it wasn’t until he felt the rain on his hands that he even knew he was crying.

He sat out in the cold, in the drizzling rain, for some time, just waiting for the pain to fade. Once, Enjolras had greeted his sarcasm with a faint smile, and treated his arguments as what they were, the fears of someone who’s been hurt so many times. Once, their arguments had even been softened to gentle murmurings made into each other's skin, made less painful with understanding and love.

Eventually, someone found him _(Joly, perhaps?)_ and hauled him to his feet. Joly was not alone, it seemed. Jehan had recruited Joly and Bossuet to come find him, and wasn’t that grand?

The cold, the rain, the alcohol, and the all encompassing sadness had dulled everything. Grantaire felt his tongue slipping back, first to archaic French, then Latin, then Gaulish, but he couldn’t find it in him to care. These gentle souls were _his,_ and so what did it matter if he spoke his mother tongue?

When morning came, and Grantaire rolled off of Jehan’s couch to the smell of breakfast and the sounds of angry coffee making, he winced.

“I’m sorry, Jehan,” he took a swig from his flask, just to help him keep the pain of his people at bay. “I hope I wasn’t too much of a bother, last night.”

The gentle poet sighed. “I’m just glad you’re alright. Even drunk, you have a mastery of many languages, it seems. You should talk to Marius. From what I could tell, your Latin was impeccable, if accented. But for now, eat, drink coffee, and go teach your class. You don’t want to be late.”

Grantaire did as he was told.

He gave his studio students clay, and told them to play around. He sculpted Roman looking figures, attempting to turn soft clay to marble.

He supervised the screen printing class he was subbing for, and nobody broke anything.

The rain never quite stopped.


	4. Chapter Four: Flickering Fluorescents

By Monday morning, it had been drizzling and miserable on and off for four days, and it didn’t seem to be clearing up much.

He couldn’t keep himself from going to the next meeting. Now that he knew that they were here, that they were all back, he had to see them. He couldn’t bear to let them go so soon after finding them again. He didn’t want to start over. He didn’t want to lose everything (everyone) again.

Grantaire slinked into the back of the room, grabbing a drink from Éponine as he passed.  _ Today, _ he thought,  _ I probably shouldn’t drink so much I’m falling over, I do want to try not to aggravate Enjolras. _

The meeting went about as smoothly as a square wheel rolling on gravel.

Enjolras had decided that the next problem they ought to tackle was the prison industrial complex.

Grantaire had snorted quietly when he had said as much, and leaned towards Éponine (on break) to comment. “Simple, really,” he said under his breath. “All we have to do is speak loudly and France’s history as an empire will fall away beneath our hands!”

Éponine huffed a laugh, and that was enough to catch Enjolras’s attention.

“Yes?” He said, a little shortly.

Grantaire waved his arm like he was dispelling the smoke from someone else’s cigar. “Nothing, nothing Apollo.”

Enjolras narrowed his eyes, but continued on.

To his benefit, Enjolras did start by talking about how complicated of a problem it was. He just couldn’t possibly imagine how much older it was. So… Grantaire told him.

“Apollo,” he drolled. “You can’t simply erase the collective trauma of people by better funding their education and changing the way prisoner reintegration and rehabilitation works. The problem you’re facing is centuries old, and is ingrained in the fabric of society, here. Hell, the problem is probably about as old as Paris herself!”

Enjolras scowled at him. “Your pessimism is unfounded. Denmark has done very well with—”

“There are approximately as many people of color in Paris alone as there are in the whole of Denmark. It’s a different battle. Racists are racist, Enjolras, and you can’t spin the prison industrial complex to not include race. You’ll never get enough people to agree about it with race involved.”

Enjolras sputtered for a moment. “That’s just not  _ true! _ There are enough good people out there—”

Grantaire laughed, and waved off Enjolras’s comment. “Go on, then, Achilles. If you’re so intent to martyr yourself fighting for  _ good people, _ don’t let a hungover modern  _ Cassandra _ stop you.”

He downed his drink, and sighed slightly. Éponine patted his arm gently. Enjolras pointedly went back to his speech.

From that point on, Grantaire only interrupted him in short bursts, sometimes contradictory, sometimes challenging. He offered a handful of counter examples (“Kent State, USA.”, “Rome! The Romans!”,  _ “Jesus Christ, Napoleon!”), _ but mostly he just yelled “Source!” every time Enjolras claimed some fact that seemed dubious.

The end of the meeting still left Grantaire aching and so unbelievably sad, but it was at least one step up from aching and sad and roaring drunk.

He traced the grain of the wooden table, pretending that it didn’t remind him of a different table, in a different time, and drifted.

It wasn’t intentional—Paris generally spent a lot of energy  _ not _ allowing himself to drift, because becoming untethered felt… dangerous.

He loved feeling with his children, seeing their lives through their eyes, being with them. It wasn’t that. It was simply overwhelming. He could vaguely feel his physical body losing all its tension as he explored the people on his streets. The girl working in the book store down the street was texting her roommate about dinner, and he let himself sink into her feeling of contentment, and the ache of her feet from the long day spent behind the counter.

An old man swallowed the last bite of his sandwich, and smiled sadly across the booth, to where his wife should have been. Paris could taste the sourdough on his tongue.

A child, skipping through the street, tripped and fell. He didn’t mind. The child stood, brushed his hands off on his pants, and—

Someone was shaking Grantaire’s shoulder. He startled back into himself, and sat bolt upright.

Combeferre was frowning at him, and hadn’t removed the hand from his shoulder.

“Are you alright, Grantaire? You seem a little out of it today.”

Grantaire blinked at him for a moment, before snapping into action and shaking the hand off, standing up and smiling. “Yes! Yes I’m good. Great, in fact. I have to go home and talk to my sandwich about dinner. I mean my roommate about wife. I mean.” He paused, sorting his thoughts. “I have to go sort out food for me and my cat,” He settled on.

Combeferre hardly looked convinced of his wellbeing. Grantaire’s smile faded slightly. “Really, I’m okay.” He nodded a goodbye and brushed past Enjolras, who was clearly waiting at the door for Combeferre. 

When he made it back to his flat, Grantaire cursed loudly. Why had he let himself get pulled away in front of them? Sure,  _ back then _ Enjolras had seen him in far more vulnerable states, but that was  _ then, _ and he was different, now. He didn’t remember Grantaire. None of them did. He leaned against his fridge, and wished things were different. The letter Athens had written in return to his inquiries weighed heavy on his heart.

* * *

Two Months Later

* * *

Grantaire yawned as he walked into the Musain, about ten minutes earlier than usual. He spotted Combeferre and Enjolras, seated at their table in the back, ordered his drink, and sat down. Combeferre smiled at him in greeting, Enjolras barely spared him a nod, clearly mid-tirade.

“Paris is an incredible city, I have no choice but to believe the same must be true of the City,” Enjolras was saying to Combeferre. “Whoever they are, wherever they’re hiding, they must be the most exquisite being to walk this Earth! Look around you, we live in the most beautiful city in the world!”

Grantaire snorted.  _ Some people never change, _ he thought.  _ And still, I am not beautiful. I’m sorry to disappoint you, Apollo. _

Combeferre hardly spared him a glance for his slight sound. “Enjolras, the city may be beautiful, have lovely architecture, and all that, but the City wears our  _ history. _ And while I will not argue that we live in a beautiful place, you know as well as I how dark and bloody our history is. Besides, the last description we have of Paris dates to the Great Fire of London, and then Paris is described as ‘plain, and unassuming, but for the City’s haunting blue eyes, which stare into your soul as to remind you that the Cities may look like us, and share our form, but they are not human.’ I don’t know about you, but that sounds more  _ intimidating _ than  _ beautiful. _ ”

Grantaire tipped his chair back, his foot on the edge of the heavy wooden table, to look at the two. “Intimidating can be beautiful,” he said, with a weighted look at Enjolras, “But remember that while London has scars from fire up her arms, and marks from the bombs, Paris has been conquered several times since 1666. Who’s to say that the City hasn’t obtained the kind of scars that make you  _ want _ to look away?”

Enjolras jutted his chin out defiantly. “When we earn the trust of our City, they will have nothing to fear from showing us our past, dark and difficult though it may be. Until then, we can only strive to make our city a better place to be, so that whoever our City is, they do not need to be coaxed out of hiding, because they will be proud of the people. If the people have done nothing but disappoint our City, why should they trust us? No, trust is earned,  _ Grantaire, _ and I intend on working to earn that trust.”

Grantaire looked at the table, letting the front legs of his chair hit the floor as he curled forward. “And what if your _beloved_ _City—_ ” he spits the word. He is vile to even himself, he does not deserve Enjolras’s devotion.

And that’s what it is, if Athens is to be believed. Enjolras and his friends, so devoted to him that even death could not hold them.

_ “What if your City knows of you, and still will not show themself? _ What  _ then, _ Enjolras?”

Enjolras stood, hands balled into fists on the table

_ “Get out.” _

“What—”

“If you insist on  _ mocking _ everything I say, and you do not believe in our cause, then you can socialize with those who would call you  _ ‘friend’ _ outside of our meetings, but I will not have you here, causing nothing but distraction as you drink yourself into a stupor.  _ Get out of my meeting. _ ”

Grantaire stood, head bowed. “As you command, Apollo.” He lurched out the door, and the sky began to weep.

* * *

Combeferre stared at Enjolras with one raised eyebrow.

Enjolras felt his chest heaving with anger, and he sank into his chair, resting his face in his hands.

“Enj—”

_ “Don’t, ‘Ferre.” _

It was silent, for a minute, then—he felt a hand on his wrist, grip solid. He sighed and allowed his hands to be pulled from his face. When he looked up, he was surprised to see it was Bahorel, not Combeferre, looming above him, and Jehan holding his wrist, looking as angry as he’d ever seen the gentle poet.

“René Henrí Enjolras, you are going to tell me what the  _ fuck _ you just did to Grantaire, or you are going to pray to whatever you believe in, because you will not like what I will do to you.”

* * *

Grantaire found his feet taking him to where the Corinthe had been, and he didn’t resist. The Corinthe no longer stood—it hadn’t been there for near a century and a half—but there was still a bar there, and he found comfort in that. He drank more than was strictly advisable for any living being, and he reveled in it. Nobody questioned the drunkard in the corner of the bar, nobody asked him why he drank. None of them knew what came with feeling the suffering of millions of people, and none of them would try to understand. With his friends, there was always the risk that if they ever found out, they would try to help him—try to understand things that were just too big for them. When the bar closed, in the wee hours of the morning, someone poured him onto the cobblestones outside, and pressed a bottle of water and a nearly empty bottle of tequila into his hands, and he thinks he smiled up at them, but he's not entirely sure if he smiled or just looked at them.

He drank indiscriminately from the bottles, and some time later, he found himself stumbling along the Seine. He could feel the rushing water under his skin, and he wondered if he could feel it under his fingers, too.

That was where Combeferre found him, leaning over the railing and reaching towards the water as if he could touch it and trail his fingers through it.

“Grantaire!”

He laughed, helplessly.  _ I almost wish you didn’t know my name, Combeferre, because you are all going to die, and it is going to hurt so much. _

“What are you  _ talking _ about, Grantaire?”

_ Oh. He’d spoken aloud. _

“Yes, you did… How drunk  _ are _ you? Should I be worried about your blood alcohol content? Oh god, should I be taking you to the  _ hospital?” _

Grantaire found himself gripping Combeferre by the collar, not sure how he’d gotten over to him, and he felt tattoos slither up his spine.  _ “No hospitals. Not now, not ever.” _

Combeferre’s dark eyes were wide, possibly with fear.

“Grantaire?” His voice was quiet, hesitant. “How did you get over to me so fast?”

Grantaire dropped him like he had been burned. “I’m not as drunk as I seem. Go home, Combeferre. There are better things waiting for you there than a cynic like me.” He turned away, and began to walk, slouching back down to his customary stature.

“Grantaire, I hope you know you can trust me. Enjolras may be my best friend, but he is painfully idiotic at times, and he was more than out of line tonight.”

Grantaire continued to walk away, and cursed quietly in Gaulish, feeling a house fire catch in his seventeenth arrondissement. He winced as the burn began its slow crawl up his right ankle, instantly feeling sober again.

The sudden influx of the information he’d been blocking out floored him, and he felt himself collapse, grabbing at his ankle out of instinct. Combeferre, ever the doctor, rushed to his aide, worried. He met Grantaire’s wild eyes, searching his face.

“Let me look at your ankle. You could have sprained it.”

Paris felt the challenge in the doctor’s eyes, and met it resolutely.

“No.”

“Grantaire.”

_ “No.” _

Combeferre was quick, reaching to pull his hand away from his ankle, but Paris was quicker. He had been hiding this secret since before Combeferre was  _ born, _ he had practice hiding everything.

“As a doctor, everything you share with me, in terms of your medical care, is absolutely confidential, Grantaire. I would never tell anyone anything you did not expressly want me to. And as your friend, I would hope that you felt that if you asked me to keep a secret, you could trust me to do it.”

Grantaire slumped. The pain was unbearable. He let his limp hand be dragged from his pant leg, and let the cuff of his jean be pushed up, so the gentle doctor could see—

_ “It’s a burn. _ Grantaire, where—when did this happen? Your clothes aren’t singed, have you been walking on this?”

Grantaire barked out a laugh.

“It grows, still, Combeferre. Gaetan, do not tell me you are so lax in your studies as to not understand that which you see.”

Combeferre shook his head slowly. “No, Grantaire. I… I understand. Would a salve help to ease the pain? Aloe vera? You shouldn’t leave a burn like this untreated.”

The City of Paris stared at his Citizen in uncomprehending shock.

“Seriously, Grantaire, even a City could get an infection, and I may be a doctor, but your physiology is a bit different than a typical humans. What do you usually do to take care of these?”

“You don’t care? ‘Ferre, I’ve been lying to you for months, shouldn’t you be furious—”

Combeferre put a hand over his mouth. “You are, first and foremost, my friend. Everything else, however world ending it may seem to you, is secondary.” He shifted, relaxing from crouching to sitting down on the street. He removed his hand from the City’s mouth. “Grantaire, it’s okay. I won’t tell anyone, that’s up to you. I  _ am _ going to insist that you let me put something on your burn, though. Are you okay?”

_ Was _ he okay?  _ No, _ he decided. He wasn’t okay. He hadn’t been okay since he’d seen Enjolras on the steps, looking every bit the marble Apollo he’d been the first time Grantaire had fallen in love with him.

“I’ve missed you, Combeferre. More than you can imagine. But Enjolras—hell, all of the others—they can never know.”

“What do you mean, Grantaire? You missed me? It’s only been a couple hours…” Combeferre put a hand on his forehead, then squinted at him. “Are you concussed? Is it possible for you to get alcohol poisoning?”

Paris stood. “Come, Gaetan. There is something you must see.”

Any objection Combeferre might have voiced was silenced by the flatness and chill of Grantaire’s  _ (Paris, _ something in him whispered.  _ He is more than human.) _ voice. His friend’s voice, usually so full of warmth and laughter, which, even when he argued bitterly with Enjolras, was full of love, had fallen empty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos to idiopathicsmile for the phrase "hungover modern Cassandra". They wrote an incredible song called "end of an era" for the fic Lag Time, and it's been playing in my head on repeat since the moment I heard it.
> 
> Join the Hoes For Enjolras Server y'all. It's full of very cool people. https://discord.gg/GRDnu3RwCb


	5. Chapter Five: Reflected Sunlight

Paris loped forward, the streets seeming to bunch up under his feet to make his journey faster. Combeferre followed behind, walking quickly. Grantaire–R–Paris was barely limping, despite how agonisingly painful such an injury ought to be.

Combeferre watched him nervously. He wasn’t unrecognisable, just different. Grantaire was holding himself differently, he seemed more present; less like he was trying to sink into the background. He walked with purpose, something Combeferre had seen him do on occasion, but only when pressed.

When Paris–Grantaire– _ Paris _ turned to look behind at him, his eyes were wrong. Slightly inhuman. Combeferre nearly tripped. Paris slowed, and took a swing from a flask.

Combeferre could almost see Grantaire calm down. The street smoothed out around them somewhat, he hunched forward a little. His pace slowed.

“Combeferre,” he said, firmly. “Do you believe in any gods? In a life after death?”

The med student blinked. “I’m not entirely sure. Are you about to show me some sort of…” he trailed off and waved his hand vaguely. “Devine miracle?”

Grantaire shrugged. “I’m not sure it’s a miracle. Miracles are positive.”

He let that sit.

Grantaire paused. “We’re here, or close enough. This may… Combeferre this may upset you greatly. I’m sorry.”

Combeferre stared up at the wall. “Is it a cemetery?”

Grantaire pushed open a small side gate. “This way.”

They took a meandering path through the headstones and monuments. It was too dark to read most of them, and they were moving too steadily for Combeferre to try. Suddenly, Grantaire stopped, and kneeled down beside an unassuming headstone, reaching out to stroke the side of it gently, delicately, like it was precious.

Combeferre studied him for a moment. He looked heartbroken. He turned his attention to the headstone.

It was old and worn, and it took him a bit to puzzle out what it said. The first thing he caught was the date of death: June sixth, 1832. He shivered, squinting to read the name.

_ Gaetan Combeferre, Friend and Guide. _

He startled back. Grantaire looked at him sadly. Combeferre blinked at him, confused. “What is this meant to be? Did you find someone I was related to or something?” He stood, dusted off the knees of his pants, and—

Grantaire caught him before he collapsed. He hefted Combeferre into his arms, bridal style, and walked towards the exit. He laid Combeferre down on a bench, and kneeled beside him waiting for him to come to. Grantaire studied the bits of dirt and clumps of grass below his knees.

“Grantaire?” Combeferre murmured. “Did you carry me all the way over here?”

Grantaire hummed an acknowledgement.

Combeferre sat up slowly. “You’re quite strong,” he mused.

Grantaire shrugged. “France has had a strong military,”

He blinked. “Yes. Well. I see. Why did you bring me here?”

Grantaire wouldn’t meet his eyes. “In 1832, a group of students led a doomed revolution—or tried to. The people never rose. I failed them. I  _ killed _ them. Three here, in Montmartre, five in Montparnasse, in pauper’s graves. One in Warsaw. One in the catacombs. Three who survived the barricades, now buried elsewhere, and me.”

Combeferre frowned. “You didn’t kill them,” He shook his head to clear it. “R, who _were they?_ _To you?”_

R rested his head against the edge of the stone bench. “Friends. Good friends, the best you could hope for—better, even. And—” he silenced himself. What could he say? Lover? Partner? Reason to be? “And a man I loved more than anything. So much that it killed me.” He closed his eyes, valiantly trying to stave off tears. “As I killed them.”

Combeferre put a hand on his head. “You didn’t kill them, Grantaire.”

“I’m sorry, Combeferre, if I could go back and try again, try harder, you wouldn’t have died so young—so much potential, so much spark, all snuffed out in a few short hours.”

The hand on his head shifted to the back of his neck. “If you truly think I was… one of them, then you must believe me when I tell you I forgive you for it. For the moment, I think I ought to get home, I feel rather faint.”

Grantaire nodded firmly. “We’ll take the catacombs, I know a shortcut or seven.”

Combeferre frowned. “People get lost in the catacombs all the time, are you sure that’s safe?”

Grantaire raised an eyebrow at him. “I’ve led Nazis to their deaths and children to safety and freedom. The catacombs are part of me, there is no better guide if you are a friend, and no worse white rabbit to follow if you want to hurt my children.”

Combeferre, who was starting to look a little dazed, nodded and stumbled to his feet.

Grantaire shot up to steady him, and guided him towards the nearest convenient entrance to the catacombs.

People have tried, over and over again, to map out Paris’s catacombs. The problem with trying to map them is that Grantaire has a bad habit of letting them move around like Daedalus’s labyrinth. He really does his best to keep the toured sections stable, but beyond that, there’s no real hope of mapping anything, unless you get lucky, and start somewhere he rarely goes.

As Combeferre lolled against him, Paris climbed down into his catacombs, and steeled himself to cause a major disturbance.

Grantaire’s frequent usage of the catacombs for shortcuts was, in the age of modern maps, one of the ways that people picked up that he was still here. He resolved himself to scramble the pathways back up tomorrow, hefted Combeferre (who was more and more out of it by the second) to his chest, and set off at a sprint, knowing that a straight line hallway would create itself around him.

In almost no time at all, Grantaire emerged from the catacombs via a sewer entrance, and cursed as he reached the front door to Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac’s apartment. He could force the lock, but that would cause more problems than it solved. He hit the buzzer next to their apartment number, hoping someone was awake enough to buzz him in.

He leaned on the buzzer, desperately trying to figure out what kind the fuck he was going to say if the door ever opened.

The intercom crackled, and Grantaire stopped leaning on the buzzer.

_ “Combeferre, I swear to god, you have never forgotten the code before, what the fuck.” _

“Uh, hi Courf,” Grantaire said, a little nervous. “Could you buzz us in, please?”

There was a bit of swearing, and the door buzzed and the lock clicked. 

Courfeyrac met him halfway up the third flight of stairs to their apartment, and seemed to start panicking the second he saw Combeferre in Grantaire’s arms. Grantaire readjusted his grip on the slight (but tall) med student, and hurried up the remaining steps and through the open door. He set Combeferre down on the couch gently, as if he hadn’t been carrying him for miles.

_ “What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck!” _ Courfeyrac came around the side of the couch and pushed Combeferre’s hair off his forehead. “Grantaire, what the fuck happened?”

Paris sighed. “It’s… complicated. I suspect—well, no, he said as much—he was out looking for me.” He took a swig from his flask, and continued. “We were talking, and he fainted. I’m sure he’ll be fine, he just seemed exhausted.”

Courfeyrac studied him.

“You’re not saying everything. You’re holding back, why?”

Grantaire shook his head. “I… I can’t tell you. I wouldn’t begin to know how.”

Court seemed to accept that non-answer, and he yawned, settling down by Combeferre’s side. “Why don’t you go rest, R. You carried him here, you must be exhausted.”

Grantaire hesitated. “I probably shouldn’t, it’s Enjolras’s apartment, too, and I don’t exactly want to see him after—well—”

Court shook his head. “Jehan and Bahorel saw you as you left, they said you looked devastated. He told us what he said, and—it’s mostly irrelevant, but we fought, a bit, and Combeferre wasn’t there, and the long and short of it is that Enjolras is staying with Feuilly tonight, and won’t be here when you wake up.” He looked up at Grantaire, worried eyes deadened without their customary sheen of passion. “Stay?”

Grantaire shrugged. “Fine. Which door?”

* * *

Paris dreamed of an endless path through dead woods. There was something—someone—behind him, but he couldn’t look. No matter how much he wanted to, his mind recoiled from the idea of actually doing it like he had burned himself on the stove.

As he walked onward, the footsteps behind him grew fainter, and the forest brighter. He stepped past the tree line, and into a clearing, and—

* * *

It couldn’t have been more than a couple hours when a wild eyed Courfeyrac woke him up. “Grantaire,” he said urgently. “He’s asleep, but he’s calling for you and I can’t calm him down.”

Grantaire walked down the hall to the couch, and wiped a hand across Combeferre’s brow before leaning down to murmur comforting words in his ear. He spoke softly, and watched as Combeferre’s frown eased up somewhat.

It took half an hour for Combeferre to stay calm for more than a minute or so at a time, and by then it was almost dawn.

Courfeyrac sighed resentfully at the slowly lightening windows. “I was hoping he’d wake up before dawn. I can never go fall asleep once the sun’s up.”

Grantaire stood slowly. “I’ll make coffee, you sit with him.”

They sat, quiet in the not-quite-night, and drank their coffee. Grantaire finished the last of his flask. Combeferre barely stirred.

Around half past nine, or so, as Grantaire was contemplating the merits of throwing himself out the window to escape what was sure to be one hell of an interrogation, Combeferre inhaled deeply, and opened his eyes, then closed them again with a groan.

Courfeyrac set down his mug quickly. “Ferre?” He said, urgently. “Ferre, are you alright? What happened?”

Combeferre sat up slowly, looking, for all the world, like he had an awful hangover. He put his head in his hands, and let out a curse. When he finally looked up at Grantaire, his gaze was as calculating as it was pained. “So that all really happened, huh?” he paused.  _ “Jesus, _ I would  _ kill _ for an Advil or seven right now.”

Courf startled to his feet towards the bathroom, presumably for the Advil, and Grantaire spoke quietly. “What really happened; you passing out?”

Combeferre frowned. “No, I remember that part just fine. It’s the part where we are—or I am, at least—a reincarnated French rebel that I’m a little hazy on.”

Grantaire looked at him. “What do you remember?”

Combeferre didn’t get a chance to answer before Courfeyrac returned with a glass of water and the bottle of Advil, and sat down on the coffee table across from Combeferre.

Combeferre looked up at Courfeyrac like he was a goddamn miracle. He reached out, brushing his hand ever so gently across Courfeyrac’s chest pausing above his heart, above his right collarbone, and then just resting his hand against Courfeyrac’s sternum, all with a dazed look of joy and relief.

Courfeyrac’s concern intensified. “Ferre?” He murmured. “Are you alright?”

Combeferre startled slightly, and drew his hand back. “Yes.” he blinked a few times. “Quite alright, I—sorry.” He took the glass of water and the pills, and leveled a weighty look at Grantaire. “Quite miraculous indeed. I believe from this point forward we shall have to endeavor to keep Courfeyrac, important historical documents, and fire far away from each other, lest he destroy more history.”

Courfeyrac made a noise somewhere between a wounded gasp and an inquisitive hmm, and Grantaire laughed until he could hardly breathe, and it was only a little bit hysterical.

When he managed to calm down enough to uncurl from how he’d collapsed in on himself, Paris saw that both Courfeyrac and Combeferre had fixed him with concerned looks; even if Courfeyrac’s was rather more disbelieving than Combeferre’s was.

He waved them off. “Combeferre, you have my phone number if you need anything. Courf—” Combeferre raised an eyebrow to silence him.

“You think you’re getting out of here without having a conversation?”

Grantaire shrugged. “Last time I tried you passed out. I figure better to wait until you’re a bit better rested…” He trailed off, submitting to the sheer force of the face Combeferre was making. He caved holding up a hand in mock surrender. “Alright, then. On your terms, monsieur.”

Courfeyrac looked between them. “Wait, wait, what?” Courfeyrac looked between them in wide eyed panic. “What  _ happened? _ What could possibly be so awful that you can’t share it?”

Combeferre placed a hand on Courfeyrac’s knee. “Everything is alright, I promise you. I’ll tell you later, alright?”

Courfeyrac looked stunned, poleaxed by the revelation that there was something that Combeferre couldn’t or wouldn’t discuss with him. His expression slowly melted into one of hurt. “I see,” he said slowly. “I see. I guess I’ll see you later, then.”

Grantaire watched Combeferre’s face as it sank from concern to despair. The door to the apartment opened and shut, and they were alone.

“I didn’t mean to hurt him,” Combeferre murmured. “I just don’t really understand, and… I passed out, which is a risk I’m not willing to take for him.”

Paris sighed. “Where do you want to start?”

Combeferre spoke firmly. “The beginning.”

* * *

Lucotocia sat on the banks of his river on a little rocky overhang, and dragged his fingers across the rushing water. He could almost feel it beneath his skin, the humming of the waterway; and it filled his senses with a cool, calm murmur. He drifted off, and dreamt of a man at the head of a tidal wave of blood. When he woke, his mouth tasted like sand, and he could feel the vibrations of a distant army in his bones. Something was coming for him, and the drums began to sound.

* * *

Lutetia smirked over his cup of sweet wine at the soldiers seated opposite him. “You haven’t lived here as long as I have, you don’t know the river like I do. I could beat you in a race any day of the week.”

He didn’t say  _ “The river is me, these streets are me, they will carry me forward, and hold you back if I even so much as let it cross my mind.” _

He simply smiled into his cup.

* * *

Paris looked through the wall ahead of him instead of at the steady heartbeat beside him. “The beginning for you, or for me? Those are two very different stories.”

Combeferre thought for a moment. “For me, I suppose.”

Paris closed his eyes and let himself remember.

“You were born somewhere in the South in 1804, a year and a half before Enjolras, and a few months after Courfeyrac. You did not know each other then, as children, you met here, as students. I think the whole city felt it; it was like lightning. Suddenly what had been only a possibility before was a certainty.

“I do not know when, exactly, you began to enlighten yourselves to the plights of the masses, I wasn't there. Nor do I know exactly when the others joined you; but I dreamt of gold. I dreamt of Enjolras.

“He was, as he is, a firestorm. I saw him, in my dream, and I was compelled to chase him into the waking world.” He shifts, a hand clutching a wrist where the faintest outline of a burn remains.

“It’s always fire that reveals us. It’s the only thing that can kill a capital, and it’s scars stay the longest. I had been… tangential… to the group for a few months. A few blocks from the Musain. You were all there, helping people get out and attempting to put it out. Joly was tending to people’s injuries. There was a little girl, in the building, and I knew she was dying. I could feel her dying. I can feel everyone, it’s maddening. So many heartbeats, so many suffering, and I know it all, as if it were me.

“Enjolras tried to go in after her. It was too late, and he would have gotten himself killed, so I stopped him. The building was failing. I pushed him out of the way, and it collapsed on me.” Combeferre hissed. Grantaire shrugged.

“It was only the matter of a few seconds’ healing, but most people can’t just stand up when a building collapses around them and be  _ fine. _ He noticed—of course he noticed—”

_ (Enjolras, through the parting smoke, like he’d been tearing through the rubble, larkspur eyes wide as anything as his shoulder popped itself back into place—) _

“And he followed me back to my apartment. I should have run—I was going to run—we fought.”

_ (“I don’t need anyone to save me,” “Clearly,”) _

“So I did the next best thing. I—but no, that’s not the story I ought to be telling. I knew you only as well as any other citizen. Perhaps slightly better, as a friend, but we were not close, and you did not know. You and Enjolras and Courfeyrac—you were always close. You founded the society together, Chief, Guide, and Center. Unstoppable, for a time. Still mortal.

“You worked so hard. You tried to improve the lives of those in my slums, but they did not join you when the barricades rose. You stood alone. That much, at least, is my fault. I failed. I could not believe in you, and I killed you. All the love in my heart couldn’t protect you from the guns of the guard.

“What comes after is simple. Marius and Cosette were sickeningly in love until they died. In 1848 we fought again and won. Time passed, things changed, I fought some nazis, I became a teacher—”

_ (On the steps, like a vision, a painting. Draped in sunlight, adorned by the gods.) _

“I saw Enjolras, on the steps.  _ This _ Enjolras.”

Combeferre rested a palm against Paris’s shoulder. “I think they would want to know, Grantaire.”

“I cannot tell them I killed them. Not when I do not know how you’re here. How much are you going to tell Courfeyrac?”

Combeferre shrugged. “It’s not just my secret; if you don’t want anyone else to know, I’ll figure it out.”

Grantaire smiled at him faintly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update schedule WHO? I swear to god I planned one out and then N O P E. Sorry!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for reading! If you have any thoughts, musings, or feedback, please leave them in the comments!
> 
> I'll have the next chapter up ASAP, but I do have a full course load at Zoom University.


End file.
